


Hiraeth

by Acherubis



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acherubis/pseuds/Acherubis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders' thoughts on the question of "What is home?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

> hiraeth – (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

What is home?  
He had a patient this morning who had asked him just that. The man had laughed when he had told him to go home and rest for a few days after he treated him; that bitter, resigned, hard laugh he hears so often down here in Darktown. And then he had asked him that question: "Home? What is home, ser mage?"  
It wouldn't leave him alone for the better part of the day and even now, standing there at the window just outside his clinic, staring into the night sky, the brightly blinking stars seem to whisper at him what is home? He is not sure he knows anymore, not sure if he ever did. Home is where you belong and he never belonged, never fit in.  
Liar, a little, relentless voice whispers somewhere in the back of his head. You did belong. You still could if you tried just a little harder.  
His thoughts drift back to the life he had before Kirkwall. It seems to be ages away, here in this rat hole where hopelessness and despair cling to everything and everyone. It makes remembering the better times even more painful, even more sorely missed which is the reason why he usually tries not to think about his past anymore. Remembering will not bring that life back. It only causes grief and he already has more than enough of that. Right here, right now, however, with the man's question ringing in his ears, he can't help but doing just that. Thinking. Remembering.  
He closes his eyes and turns his face into the ever present breeze whipping around the cliff line as he ponders the answer to that question, allowing the memories to come.  
What is home?  
It is a place. A fortress. Gray stone walls and the smell of wet rock. A lush garden. Carefully tended to, with vibrant colors and most delicious scents. A kitchen. Always warm and welcoming, with a larder that's never empty. A room. Comfortable and his, filled with books, a cat dozing on the window sill. Home is the Vigil. The only place he ever dared calling so, if only reluctantly.  
It is a feeling, too. A mix of feelings, really. Contentment. The knowledge that you have a refuge, that you don't have to run anymore. Security. Fitting in a circle of friends, assured of their loyalty and affection. Belonging. The simple happiness of knowing you're cared for. Satisfaction. Feeling that you are needed not for what you are but who you are. Home is the wardens. Within their ranks, he had been no better or worse than anybody else. They had accepted him in their midst even though he was an apostate.  
But above everything else, home is a person. Someone who makes you smile when you are sad, drives away the nightmares with a stroke of their hand. Someone you trust infinitely. With your deepest, darkest secrets, your greatest fear, your very life. The one person that you don't want to be without, can't be without.  
He takes a deep breath as homesickness rolls over him in an agonizing wave with that thought, with the essence of what home really was for him.  
It was a touch. A face. A humming voice in the dark. Home was a hand in his. A brilliant smile reserved just for him. Home had a name, a scent, a taste but he has forgotten most of it. He can't remember the feel of that hand anymore, nor the sound of the voice when it sang to him at night. The scent is nothing more than a pale copy of what it used to be and that beloved face has lost its clarity, blurred by time and memory.  
So what is the answer to the question when you don't know the meaning anymore?  
What is home?  
It is a word. Just a word devoid of meaning. Just four letters with no significance. It can't be anything else. Not for him. Home ceased to exist the moment he climbed that steep, muddy hill on a night like this four years ago, leaving everything behind that was important to him, that defined home. The place. The feeling. The person.  
He smiles up at the stars. Sad, yearning.  
What is home?  
"A beautiful dream," he whispers before he turns away from the window, slowly stepping through the door that marks the entrance to a residence that will never be home.


End file.
